


It starts with the gazes.

by tazwrites



Category: Original Work
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-29
Updated: 2020-08-29
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:35:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26175817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tazwrites/pseuds/tazwrites
Summary: Would I get to know him? Sit on the bed while he cares for my grandfather, his thin arms making quick work of my grandfather’s body. He oils him and prepares him for death. My grandfather lies unconsciously on the bed beside me. The nurse seizes the opportunity alone and asks me where I am from. My mother told me before, warned me of this. Men find it easy to prey on little girls. Women, too – they all find it easy to prey on the foreigner who is too quick to divulge information to make herself likeable. I smile and ask him to guess. He says America and I smile in congratulation. He asks me, later, days later, whether I am wealthy, and I ask him if he thinks I am. The answer is in his eyes. I tell him briskly that if I was truly rich, I would not be here. Use your brain, I think. I am disappointed he does not have one.
Kudos: 1





	It starts with the gazes.

It starts with the gazes.

They are innocent. I mean, for the most part. There is probably something off about the way our eyes stick to each other as we walk by, watching unabashedly. The family driver watches as I coil my arm behind my cousin’s headrest, protective and yielding at the same time. The gaze means _something_. I am not sure either of us know what it is.

We invade each other’s personal space. I have always shied from touching, but when it comes to him it is like second nature. A tap, a pat, a push. Lightly grabbing his arm. Smiling and waving. I tell him he has grown attractive. I tell my cousins about him. I laugh and inhabit his room, a loud noise in a small place. He invites me to his date.

I tell him I like another boy and his face falls. He encourages me. I tell him to get married. He seems excited by the prospect. I hope my voice is not bitter when I tease him for his crush. I hope the affection is not too strong when I tell my mother what a beautiful family they are. I hope I am not obvious when I tell him that his color choices are perfect. He would make a great husband.

It is the empty promises. He’s such a good boy, he’s grown so much. Is the softness I feel when I see him hugging my grandfather because I long for that connection, or because I am impressed? Worse, is it because I find it appealing? Men with soft hearts. I have always looked for that.

The male nurse we employ for my grandfather is sour, mouth twisted in perpetual frown. Any affection that comes while doing the care of his work is hidden behind his face mask, pulled below his nose and effectively rendering the covering useless. I say nothing. It is not my country, after all. Not my place to say things.

Last night I had a dream.

It is so easy to dream of men. Israfil and Kol kissing, whisking the night away, wings flared by their side. Do I ship EndHawks? If I did, I would imagine them bedding together. Instead I tire away at year old thoughts of Kastell and Jael – one a bratty, spoiled king, personifying me, and the other a tirelessly perfect redhead. Tanned by the sun and littered with scars, Kastell is a man’s dream. He is mine. He is definitely Jael’s. They make quite a picturesque couple, the two of them. Jael, small and waif, light as a feather and easily pulled away by Kastell’s arm. Kastell, hulking, broad forearms ripping from beneath his tunic. The girth of it barely covers him.

Like I said. Picturesque couple.

And it’s Jael who gets the attention, the affection, so I do not have to feel ashamed. Only when I realize that Israfil and Kol have tired me do I focus elsewhere, think about the boy with the sour smile and pants too big for his skeletal waist.

Would I get to know him? Sit on the bed while he cares for my grandfather, his thin arms making quick work of my grandfather’s body. He oils him and prepares him for death. My grandfather lies unconsciously on the bed beside me. The nurse seizes the opportunity alone and asks me where I am from. My mother told me before, warned me of this. Men find it easy to prey on little girls. Women, too – they all find it easy to prey on the foreigner who is too quick to divulge information to make herself likeable. I smile and ask him to guess. He says America and I smile in congratulation. He asks me, later, days later, whether I am wealthy, and I ask him if he thinks I am. The answer is in his eyes. I tell him briskly that if I was truly rich, I would not be _here_. _Use your brain_ , I think. I am disappointed he does not have one.

We don’t talk. That night, my parents ask him to stay. This one they trust. _Yasser is okay_ , they say, and I slept undisturbed in my own room for the night. I steal away at 2:30 a.m., when I know my grandmother has slipped into her sleep, my mother in its throes. It’s a risky take, but when is it not? I pad my way to the formal guest room, fan lazily spinning on the ceiling. I see the individual blades turn. His eyes watch the ceiling, too, but when I creak the door open, he sits up, faster than I expect him to.

He leaps to his feet and ruins my plan. I hush him and tell him to sit, then carefully place my legs on either side. If I do not watch carefully, I will crush him. He barely understands, but his hands hesitantly caress my biceps and he settles himself back on the floor. I part my clothes. An abaya is incredibly useful for an endeavor like this. He settles his eyes on my plain black bra, pupils dilated, and my gray panties are hardly a distraction.

My stomach hangs between us like dead weight, but he has no eyes for it as he unclasps the hook on the back, hands coming to feel my breasts. There is pure wonder in his eyes. I contemplate the power I hold, then I start to unbuckle his pants.

It is nerve-wracking, the thought of making love. Neither of us have protection. I ask him if he is clean and he does not understand. He speaks in a language I know but the accent is so thick I ignore his words and muffle my laughter into the crook between his shoulder and neck. I stroke his member hesitantly and ask with my eyes. _Is this okay?_ I never bothered to learn the Urdu phrase for a rarely used English one.

Everything is uncertain. This is my first time. I want to tell him, but I am afraid of the words, afraid of losing time. We slowly slide into one another and it is painful, painful, as I feel something I have never felt before. He shakes from pleasure, just a little – perhaps it is his first, too. His eyes are shut and his mouth falls open in silent prayer, hands still grasping my chest, so I let the pain go. When I sit all the way down, a tiny gasp of surprise escapes me. It is pain, unexpected. Foreign. For him it is a groan of pleasure. The next snap up I yelp, much too loudly for the quiet, empty floor we all inhabit. We stare at one another and then I slide off, steal my clothes away and run to the adjacent room, quietly locking the door behind me.

My laughter should not escape me as it does now. I have no excuse for being here, dressed in a plain bra and spare clothes. This room with no AC, no workout equipment. There is nothing to occupy me here. When my mother finds me, I cannot imagine what I will say. The fury I will face.

The room next door has a man rolling around in his bedsheets, trying to calm the wood in his trousers. He has pulled his pants up in order to maintain dignity; the door was thrown open by my hasty actions. There is nowhere for him to go. To leave to the bathroom is to expose both of our covers. My mother will come soon, questioning, and he will be the first in trouble.

There is little I can do except pretend I am here for the bathroom because it has a camote that flushes, unlike the one in my room, where I pour water from a bucket as a makeshift flush. My mother will see through my lies.

There is only one other thing I can lie about.

She comes into the room, furious, anger ablaze. _Do you know who is next door?_

And in fact, I do. I know him very well, now. I crack open the deep freezer in response to her questions and she sees the open bag of chocolate covered coconut almond clusters. Her anger is frightening, but it is nothing to the truth.

She knows something else is wrong. No matter who I am, where I may be, mentally or physically, I am her daughter. I have no reason to run into a room with cold chocolate and a dark bathroom and a wet bed with only a bra, panty, and abaya. She looks at my outfit and rightly deems it a sorry one for seduction. I know he is barely looking at the clothes. It works.

We try to steal glances at each other after that night, but it does not work. This is his _job_ after all. He has too much to risk. I watch him with a smile gracing my lips, my eyes gleaming. My mom catches on. She doesn’t understand – that much I can tell. Her brows are furrowed in confusion. I find it all hilarious.

She will never know. She may suspect, but her daughter is not this girl. I bite the corner of my lips and watch his mask crinkle oddly and I know he is smiling, too, keeping it in.

He is never invited to stay the night again.


End file.
